


We Are A Way For The Cosmos To Know Itself

by ZeroSystem



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Science, M/M, Multi, Voyeurism, sex therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 03:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18842755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeroSystem/pseuds/ZeroSystem
Summary: Thinly disguised pwp.





	We Are A Way For The Cosmos To Know Itself

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this, no beta reader as usual, and please, do not use this as medical advice for real life situations involving post-curse nerve damage.

How long has it been? Three thousand, four thousand years? Since he's felt such keen stirrings? Unfair. Perverse. Filthy. And yet so seductive; perhaps the most seductive feeling that's ever gripped him. He burns, and he burns _to_ burn, desperate for the maddening _want_ to open wider and drown him completely. Avallac'h shivers and feels sweat break out on his skin, almost squirming beneath the strong, sword-calloused fingers moving over him. The witcher. Geralt. The day before, his sorceress, her juvenile magic covering up a body nearly as deformed as his recently shed cursed one, had laid out the facts frankly. The half-performed Trial of Grasses remade him from an atomic level, and left him in a fragile, ruined state.

Geralt drags his touch, fingertips only, down his spine. To the swoop of his hipbones, the hollowed dents there at the dimples above the swell of his ass. Avallac'h squeezes his eyes shut. He should want to end it – he should feel overwhelmed by shame, all his centuries of self-mastery flung out the window in the wake of _being saved_. He'd been prepared to live with permanent nerve damage and worry about seeing to partial recovery later, but then this potential had been presented to him. Illicit and dangerous, like a criminal sum of money slid over to him on a slip of paper in a gambling den. The potions had remade him, left him this way, true, but by the same token, it's made everything new – starving for input and direction. Perhaps his nerves and sense of touch can be salvaged, with the timely application of correct – unconventional - therapy. 

She had been explicit in her description, but also flatly academic. Avallac'h both appreciated her directness and recoiled in disgust from the idea of it. Human mages, sorceresses, all the same, their clumsy and base hill magic, little better than stirring cauldrons full of blood and spooned-out eyes. But he'd agreed. And agreed again, and again, until the coddling over his consent became aggravating. 

_I said yes, vatt'ghern._

“Can you feel it?” 

The sorceress sits in a chair beside the bed, observing them. Avallac'h splayed on his belly, nude, her barbarian lover knelt above his back. He endeavors not to think of Zireael, and what her opinion on this configuration might be; it is bad enough to have been reminded at once that she is the way she is thanks to this man. So many small things that Avallac'h had romanticized into being the product of the Hen Ichaer, echoes of Lara Dorren, are but echoes of a mutant for a father figure. Disgusting. 

“He can feel it,” the witcher rumbles in response, before Avallac'h can find it in himself to craft words. Geralt is right; Avallac'h can. Down to his bloody toes. This roundabout way of tricking his endocrine system into perking up shouldn't work, and it shouldn't be something his body feels starving for, but Yennefer was right. These are, technically, new limbs, new veins, new cells. The mutant's touch is waking things long-dormant, stirring him, like turning a snow globe upside down and shaking it. His nerves are desperate to respond, leaping up to meet the way his blood warms and his arousal simmers. _Arousal_. True and raw sexual arousal. For so long it's been little more than a dull mechanic when the rare sparks make themselves known... 

“Good. He'll need a lot more, if the regeneration is to kick off properly. Wouldn't want him to lose the use of his hands.”

“I am in this very room.” Now, he does manage words, but is slightly shamed to hear his own voice so strained, and wishes he hadn't spoken. Geralt is massaging his rump. He can feel his cock begin to fill. His fingertips itch, and he curls his hands, stretches them out, gathers the sheet beneath them. 

“Yeah, I noticed.” Deadpan. Why the witcher agreed, Avallac'h has no idea. Certainly not because he lusts after an old sage. Perhaps he truly is a savage who can make his cock perform for anything; perhaps only because his woman asked this of him. Avallac'h huffs, and Geralt pinches the swell of one globe of his ass, making him suck in a quick breath. That well-hidden playfulness risks becoming charming. He must not allow it.

“Yennefer,” Avallac'h sighs, inquisitive, “Why must it be Geralt? In your professional opinion.” 

“My _professional_ opinion?” He watches out of the corner of his eye, the way she shifts her position, uncrossing her legs to cross them the opposite way, one artificially shapely knee over the other. Geralt makes some low noise and she glances to him, exchanging a look Avallac'h can't begin to decipher. Their silent language is alien to him. “Why, process of logical elimination. Of the potential pool, ones I discarded were Keira, Triss, and Eskel. Keira because she'd be too eager for this early stage. Triss because even though I know she'd agree, she'd put on too much of a show about considering it, and risk your privacy. Eskel would be gravely discreet, and perhaps better,” at this Geralt makes another noise that sounds mildly offended, “given the way he radiates the magic of mutagens more distinctly than Geralt does. But I must closely monitor this session. And I would rather watch Geralt.” 

The man – does he count as a man? - in question is spreading his asscheeks apart. Avallac'h feels his face go red with pleasure at the lewdness of it. He has loved male elves this way before, many times. After the age of fertility passes, Aen Elle, like Aen Seidhe, are free to take whatever sort of lover they might like. He's shocked that this Kaedweni human, this rural, culturally bankrupt animal, has any sort of experience. Perhaps he has taken the sorceress this way?

“What do you mean by radiating mutagens?” he asks, breathless. 

“You can't feel it yet? Interesting.” Yennefer leans forward, as if perhaps she can see something. “Geralt's skin. Anything longer than a handshake and there's a tingling sensation. It's faint, much more faint than with a witcher like Eskel or Lambert, because he took the mutagens so easily. Perhaps you'll be able to detect it as you heal.” 

Fascinating. 

“How long's it been?” Geralt asks, interrupting academic curiosity with his usual bluntness. He rubs his thumb over Avallac'h's hole, and the elf has to press his face into the pillow to keep from crying out with need. His cock must be hard by now, or mostly. His whole body feels feverish, and he aches, centered in his groin, nerves trying to twitch to life all up his spine. He doesn't answer, and so the witcher shifts his weight, moving down. He hears Yennefer say, “I have some,” but then something not at all a finger and not at all oil touches him, and he gasps. 

His mouth. His _mouth_. The furry and prickling rasp of his beard on the softest of skin, the flat cut of his lips, his burning, hot, wet, _tongue_. Geralt licks over him, licks _into_ him, probing with that devil's tongue, wetting him, holding him down effortlessly with hands at his hips. Not that Avallac'h has the strength to do anything but squirm weakly. He is transported by it. Aen Elle do not perform this act. It is dirty. It is _glorious_. Geralt licks him open steadily, a sloppy, soaking mess, inelegant, _perfect_. Saliva drips down from the mess he's making of his tiny furled hole, down to his balls, which are aching to the point of pain, unable to draw themselves up, but trying to. Avallac'h's whole body twitches. Geralt shoves his tongue in deep, uses his fingers to tug open his hole and wriggle further in. It goes on, and on, and Avallac'h can't tell when he finally pulls away if it's only been a few minutes or if it's been hours. He's trembling all over. 

“That should wake you up,” the witcher says, his low voice even raspier than usual. Avallac'h's traitorous hormones (are they even his? are they that of a witcher's, now?) want to beg him to continue, but blessedly, he hasn't the fortitude to make any sounds besides gasping. Oil hits him then, poured directly from some vessel or another directly onto his cleft and between, before Geralt's thick fingers are back, massaging, probing, stretching. 

Avallac'h says “ _Oh_ ,” and a hand strokes the back of his head soothingly. Small and firm. The sorceress. He should snap at her to leave him be, the mutant's attentions are shameful enough, but it only makes him burn hotter. She tuts at Geralt, they murmur at each other, but he barely hears and hardly comprehends. She is supervising; whether her lover actually needs supervision, he has no idea. Doubts, even. Yennefer is simply the type that needs to supervise. 

Geralt's index finger works the tight ring of his hole, and Avallac'h, feeble in his exhaustion and desire, still manages to spread his thighs wider, unable to cling to even a shred of dignity. Geralt's other hand smooths down, over the runic tattoos and smooth skin, hitches one prone leg further apart, then the other. Two fingers saw in and out of him now, and Avallac'h bites his own tongue to keep himself from begging. How is it possible to _want_ so much? Has his body been transformed so drastically? Have they enchanted him? He's going to lose his mind.

“You're frustrating him,” he hears Yennefer chide, and her touch turns firmer, fingernails finding his scalp. The small scratch shouldn't be as electrifying as it is. What are they like together, the sorceress and the witcher? Tender? Bestial? Does she bestow on him all these same maddening touches, does he slip into her with this same care? Or do they rut with abandon like animals in the forest?

Geralt says, entirely unfairly in Avallac'h's opinion, “Thought that was the point.”

“Certainly, but we discussed all upper limits, and his system is responding well. We _could_ stop here.”

_No!_ A spike of panic lances through him. Yennefer, monitoring, as she said, tilts her heard to look at him, finely drawn eyebrows raising. 

“Your opinion is the deciding vote, of course.”

He's not sure if she seems offended or just smug – there is something predatory about her at all times, in all moods that he has so far witnessed, like hunting bird. But it does not matter. “Proceed,” the elf says. 

_Please._

Geralt's response is to grunt in acknowledgment. A moment passes, and he says, “Thanks.” For what, Avallac'h wonders, slightly dizzy. And then, _then_ , the blunt, silk-soft, wet tip of a cock at his entrance. Geralt is hard. Oh, _oh_. Did she unlace his breeches for him? Take his stiff length in her slender hand? Is she holding him now? She's leaning over them still, but Avallac'h can't see. What he wouldn't do for a mirror along the wall. Geralt pushes the tip in, draws away, rubs it over him, pushes in again. Teases him. _Tortures him_. He is so slick with oil. For a mad moment, Avallac'h wishes he wasn't so thorough. He wants to know what a witcher's precome feels like, unadulterated. But all thought is banished from his head when Geralt pushes in properly.

Avallac'h has been bitterly dismissive of the praises of human lust, but maybe there's something to be said for them after all. Geralt is so much thicker than any elven cock Avallac'h's ever taken. No wonder every sorceress from one side of the Continent to the other is desperate to ride it. Avallac'h hasn't been fucked in some hundreds of years, so his perspective is rusty, but Geralt feels _enormous_. He stops, begins to piston, in and out, rocking, and Avallac'h thinks he's begun to fuck him, but realizes he's just trying to get the rest of his erection in. He gets in deep, _deeper_ before he finally bottoms out, his balls snug up against his ass. Avallac'h is so full, stretched wide around his prick, that he just trembles. 

“All right?” the witcher grunts. Avallac'h takes a breath, then another, letting himself find steadiness. The invasion is so erotic and so _good_. He bites his lip, but the aborted sound of a moan escapes anyway, and he has no choice but to nod in confirmation. _Yes. I'm all right._ Geralt rocks his hips forward. Avallac'h whimpers. Yennefer rakes her nails over his scalp. He feels everything like burning needles, all over his body.

_Move, move, please bloody move_. Geralt just hitches forward, back, settling, swiveling his hips slowly, not pulling out. Avallac'h holds his breath. 

“Move already you awful dh'oine,” he gasps. He hears Geralt laugh lowly, and then, he begins to fuck.

It is marvelous. Avallac'h has no way to know if it's because of the situation, his delicate body responding like an eager virgin's because of the abbreviated Trial, or simply because Geralt is an expert in making love. No. Is this making love? Surely not. It might not even be sex; scientific, medical therapy. Fucking. Fuck therapy. Avallac'h is dizzy. Geralt is drawing his cock halfway out of his body then plunging it back in, stimulating the profoundly sensitive gland inside of him and all surrounding nerves of that anal passage. The stiff pain of it is pleasure in itself; Avallac'h has always liked it rough. Which Geralt is not particularly being – but he could be, the sage is sure of it. He has such strength, he could... he could... Avallac'h tries to brace his knees to push back, but he can't, and his breath catches. 

“Tell me,” the sorceress whispers, so near to his ear. He can smell her powder-fresh skin and her perfume. He can smell the witcher's sweat, and the oil they've used.

“Harder,” Avallach chokes out. “It's good. It's _good_. Harder, Geralt. _Yennefer_.”

In the spur of the moment, begging his lady's permission feels right. 

And it must be so. Geralt moves his hands, shifts around, rolls his hips in a few long, slow thrusts that make Avallac'h's toes curl – he can feel the whole, heavy length of him, bearing down on his trembling body, forcing his tight hole open wide. He moans and tries to push his hips back, but it's a barely-there movement. Geralt notices anyway, though, and slips his hands to beneath Avallac'h's hipbones. He feels caught, like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. The witcher moves his legs and posts up, getting his knees somewhere with better leverage. Yennefer curls her fingers in his hair. And then Geralt fucks him with force, holding him as to not let his body jerk forward. Avallac'h gasps, spread open, helpless. The witcher's cock slams up against his prostate over and over, hips snapping viciously against him, ploughing into him with all the unrestrained power Avallac'h had wanted. For a moment, he has a flash of something like fear; _is it too much?_ But it passes, and he's left with nothing but wild desire. Free and needy and desperately, unbelievably horny. 

Geralt fucks into him, fast and to the hilt with each solid thrust that sends fire and lightning through Avallach's body, spearing him. He hears noises, realizes he's moaning, and manages to turn his head to whimper into the pillow. Yennefer pulls his head up and repositions it, chastising him in her silky voice. “Our sage musn't suffocate,” she says, and Avallac'h swears. He barely recognizes himself. Her grip tightens and his breath hitches; she pulls even tighter, and he moans even louder. Geralt is humping him ruthlessly, panting harshly. Avallac'h can hear the slap of their bodies, feel the generous weight of his testicles as they beat against his bare ass, and the leather of his trousers scratch at him. The witcher had stripped himself of his shirt, but hadn't gone naked as to not make Avallac'h feel so hunted. There is something unfairly erotic about it, now. The bed is creaking. Yennefer is raking the nails of her other hand down his back. Avallac'h is going to come.

Her clever fingers slip between the globes of his ass and press against the rim of his role, feeling the way her lover's cock drills in and out, and Avallac'h spasms, grinding down against the mattress, out of control. Yennefer makes a satisfied noise and slaps him – actually slaps him, the sound of her flat palm connecting with the meat of his ass cracking through the room like thunder. He shakes apart. He dissolves, he shatters. His emission is weak, his cock having only managed to become half-hard beneath him, but the sheer depravity of it and constant abuse of his prostate wrung it out of him anyway. In his newly birthed state, it's like being struck by lightning. Avallac'h moans, clutches at the sheets, chokes on his own breath, sees fucking stars. He feels it shimmer in every particle of his reformed body. 

Geralt is a consummate professional at all things, it seems. He'd pushed in deep, as deep as he could, and held there while Avallac'h shuddered through his climax. Now he pets his sides, rubs the small of his back, and slowly pulls that still-hard member from his body. Avallac'h feels a surprisingly sharp stab of disappointment, even though he knows full well he would not be able to take more; already his consciousness slides towards dimness. Geralt rubs his stiff mutant penis against the cleft of his ass, and Avallac'h sighs, permissive and even a little hopeful. Were this a very different encounter, he'd encourage a lover to continue to fuck him, and even though Geralt is decidedly _not_ a lover, Avallac'h, in his compromised and blissful state, wishes for him to finish. The witcher grinds down against him, and Avallac'h feels Yennefer press her hand over, making a tight channel for him to fuck into. They're speaking to each other in whispers he can't make out, and he turns his head over his shoulder, unbearably curious. 

Yennefer has her face pressed to the side of Geralt's, his pale skin flushed and sweaty, color high on hers, clearly aroused in turn. He feels her fingers move, jerking him, toying with the head of his cock. It's too wicked – Avallac'h has to look away, unable to order his thoughts. The witcher humps him for another few moments before he grunts and grinds down harder, and hot, sticky fluid spills over Avallac'h's backside. 

Incredible, how three old, infertile beings in the guest room of a decrepit castle, tending to the after-effects of a nightmarish curse, have managed to construct one of the most erotic experiences of Avallac'h's tediously long life. 

He doesn't realize he's drifted off until he wakes – still warm, damp with sweat and water used to bathe him, sore, but clean and tucked under blankets. The candle beside the bed hasn't shrunk very much since the last time he stared at it when he first laid down for this _therapy_. He's not been alone for long. stretches his limbs and shuffles onto his side, half-curled. He feels drained, but he _feels_. He doesn't have the energy to do a self-diagnostic with magic, but intuition and the echoes of tingling tells him that his nerves are alight and full of coursing blood, working away at healing. Kick-starting his endocrine system and baiting his pituitary gland done wonders already. For science, it is a curious evening. 

For his libido, too. Avallac'h should be more offended. He let a mutant plough him flat on his face like a dog. While his witch lover petted and played and undoubtedly received more than just academic gratification. Ah, well. Once he's rested, he's sure he'll be able to harness the appropriate outrage, and... 

_What's that?_

Avallac'h's thought process freezes in place, and he stretches his hearing, trying to identify the sound. From the other side of the wall? What noise could travel through these crude, thick stones? He hears it again. 

A moan. A woman's. 

Color floods Avallac'h's face, and he's almost shocked he has the fortitude of blood pressure for it, but mostly, he's furious he hasn't the energy to cast a spell to see through the damned wall. Geralt and Yennefer are fucking in the other room, he's sure of it. He can't see it, he can't even hear it properly, and he's too incensed to be disgusted at himself. He should be grateful that the mutant didn't just throw her over on the bed next to his unconscious body, thrust his big cock into her and fuck away beside him, he should be happy they aren't mating like beasts in his direct view, he should, he should-- 

Oh, he's dizzy. He's too weak for this, shaking like a newborn fawn. Shame curls in his gut, hot and shuddering. Will he need another session like this one? Will he be able to withstand more, feel more, let Geralt finish within him? Will Yennefer participate, or instruct Geralt, give him orders on how to better apply the methods she's so intimately familiar with? How will he live with himself?

The worse thought, of course, is not needing any further treatment at all.


End file.
